


so long, lonesome

by DevilishKurumi



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Humanstuck, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-08-11
Updated: 2012-10-12
Packaged: 2017-11-11 21:46:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/483231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DevilishKurumi/pseuds/DevilishKurumi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The stranger is a scrawny, stubble-jawed asshole with a weird half-cowlick in his hair.  One of his eyes looks fucked up, in that way that you'd never be able to place without googling what a healthy, normal eye looks like for comparison.  He doesn't quite manage to look at you directly, kind of off-kilter, like he can see you but only in his peripherals.  "Yeah," he slurs, kind of giggling, "Yeah, I'm - I'm fine, I just."  He wavers when he tries to stand, putting his hand out on your hood, "I just.  Haha.  Man, did you fucking hit me?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> the original request was for hurt/comfort involving potential hospitals and junk but since YOU CAN’T CUDDLE IN THE ICU i kind of slid away from the hospital part.
> 
> here's some [background music](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SuDipDU0jCQ).

            One A.M. traffic reports are practically a joke.  You don't bother to listen to the distracted and vacant announcer, who's trying to tell you about construction on the 610 loop that's closing the freeway down to an astonishing two lanes, and you go ahead and change the station when he goes on to talk about the I-10 like it's something you might be interested in.  Terrible country fills the cab of your beat up Honda and you let it; it's better than the shitty rap on The Box and it's more varied, anyway.

            The back roads to your apartment are almost completely devoid of life, most of the cars and people making their way using the main streets, the ones covered in bars and restaurants.  You prefer the dark grunginess of the side-streets; it kind of reminds you of barren towns out past Odessa, where there are plenty of homes and businesses but you can't see a single person in the entire place.  Creepy, but harmless.

            The light at the end of the block turns red and you slow, aiming to reach it as it turns green.

            Someone walks into the middle of the road.

            You slam on the brakes, but despite the fact that you're going relatively slow (25 in a 35 zone), you manage to feel the bump of someone getting just a little grazed by you.  The speedometer reads less than five miles, so you figure you're okay and you haven't killed anyone, but your heart is hammering in your chest and you think you're probably going to need your fucking inhaler.

            The person you hit is kind of just sitting on the corner of your hood, dazed-like, so you slide into park and climb out, half of you wanting to apologize, the other half insisting that it's all this asshole's fault.  He tilts his head as you slam the car door.

            "Dude, what the _fuck_ ," you start, but stop abruptly when you see his fat lip and bloody nose.  Oh, fuck this universe and all the special hells it wants to put you through.  "Holy shit.  Are you okay?"

            The stranger is a scrawny, stubble-jawed asshole with a weird half-cowlick in his hair.  One of his eyes looks fucked up, in that way that you'd never be able to place without googling what a healthy, normal eye looks like for comparison.  He doesn't quite manage to look at you directly, kind of off-kilter, like he can see you but only in his peripherals.

            "Yeah," he slurs, kind of giggling, "Yeah, I'm - I'm fine, I just."  He wavers when he tries to stand, putting his hand out on your hood, "I just.  Haha.  Man, did you fucking hit me?"

            He sounds like that's the funniest fucking thing you could have done to him.  You're quick to defend yourself, saying, "You walked into the middle of the fucking street, bro."

            He laughs a little hysterically and says, "Yeah, I did, didn't I?"  He stands up for a full ten seconds, then slumps down again, missing the hood and slipping on your bumper, grabbing at the metal to keep himself from busting his ass on the pavement.  If he's seriously fucked up, you are in so much goddamn trouble, so you come up in front of him and hook your hands under his arms, pulling him up until he's settled on your hood again.  "Thanks."  You can hear a lisp in his voice, still noticeable even if he's slurring like a drunken frat boy.

            "What the fuck, I was going negative ten miles an hour, dude.  You can't be this jacked up."

            He laughs, then shudders and says, "Yeah, I can be, fuck you, you hit me with your car."  He's got some clarity there, now, and he's starting to sound kind of irritated, if still completely fucking loopy.  There's an indent on the bridge of his nose where glasses should be, and you look around briefly to see if they fell off or something.  "No, I was.  Sort of mugged, just - over there."  He points down the corner, vaguely.  "I, uh.  Got clobbered, fuck, man, I just got fucking _mugged_."

            There's a twinge of hysteria in there, and you take his shoulders and say, "Slow your roll, look straight ahead at me."  You don't have a penlight or anything, but you've had a concussion once or twice, and your brother always taught you basic first-aid when he thought it was relevant.  Survivalists, man.  You don't know what you'd do without them.

            His eyes focus a little and you already know he's fucked up, even as you say, "Follow my finger with your eyes," and slowly move a finger from the center to the left, then back, center to the right.  He's not really following, but it looks more like he's straight up having trouble with that left eye of his.  "What day is it?" you ask.

            "I don't know," he says, "What day is it?"

            Stupid question.  "Yeah, I don't know that one either off the top of my head, okay."  He giggles and you frown and say, "I think you need to go to the hospital.  You might have a pretty nasty concussion."

            "Nah," he says, "I'm okay.  Really."

            "Yeah?"  You let go of him, stepping back a few feet, "Then get up and go."

            He pushes himself up onto his feet, swaying as he takes a few steps, and then he hisses, fisting a hand in his hair as he sags.  You don't manage to catch him, and he falls to his knees on the asphalt, groaning.

            "Yeah, that's not happening.  C'mon."

            He doesn't move.  "My glasses," he says after a minute.

            "What?"

            "My glasses," he repeats, distant, looking towards the sidewalk, "I need my glasses."

            You sigh, but from what you're getting, he's probably right.  His eyesight's probably shit, even without a concussion.  "Here, c'mon, I'll look for them.  Just... get up, already."  You hold out both hands, waiting a tick before reaching down and grabbing him above the elbows.  He helps you as you pull him up, the best he can, but he still staggers until you get an arm around him, helping him along to the passenger side of your car before absconding to look for said glasses.  You don't even know where he was robbed, for fuck's sake.  He said it'd been just up the block, but who knows.  It could have been two blocks over, or down an alley, or something.

            It takes you five minutes before you stumble upon the cracked remains of a pair of glasses, thick lenses splintered in wire frames.  When you pick them up, the right lens falls out.  You manage to catch it before it hits the ground, at least, and you hold it in your hand as you make your way back to the car.  He turns his head like a startled animal when you open the door, sliding into the driver's seat, and he says weakly, "Is that you?"

            "Yeah," you say, unwilling to mess with him considering how fucked up he sounds and looks.  "I found your glasses, I think.  But they're all fucked up.  You're going to need new ones."

            You fold the legs and put the frame and the loose lens into his lap, then force your car to start by pumping the gas pedal and shifting it into neutral, then back to park, all while turning the key.  You really need a new car.

            You get about half a block down before you register these strange little hiccups coming from the stranger sitting next to you.  You use a passing streetlamp to glance at him, only to see him pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes, hunched over himself like he's trying to curl into nothing.  This dude's life fucking sucks - he gets mugged, his glasses probably cost a pretty fucking penny, and then you hit him with a goddamn car.

            You pull along the curb and put on your hazards.  "Hey.  What's your name?"

            He turns his head away from you, pressing his forehead into the window.  Eventually, he manages to say, "Sollux," but it takes you a minute to parse it out.  Man, even fucking worse, he's got a name he can't even say.  This guy is more of a universal dumping ground than you.

            "Dave," you say in return, and he nods after a few seconds.  "Listen to me, okay?  You're fine.  Everything's gonna be okay.  I'm gonna take you to the E.R., and we'll get you checked out-"

            Without warning, Sollux sobs, biting back on the noise too late.  "I _can't_ ," he stammers, "I can't, please."

            You could just force him.  He's dumbstruck and skinny and looks like he hasn't eaten his entire life, and you might have some mild asthma attacks sometimes, but you are strong and you've been taught how to use your strength to your advantage.  He needs to see a doctor, because there might be worse than just the head injury and the wounded pride, and you're kind of in the caretaker position right now.

            He's shaking.  When you realize that, you feel fucking _horrible_ for even thinking about forcing him.  "Shit," you say, "Alright.  No hospital."  You kind of wish he'd go back to hysterical giggling, because while it was creepy as fuck, at least it didn't make you feel sick to your stomach.  "Where do you live?  I can give you a ride."

            He shakes his head.

            "C'mon, dude, I need to do something here.  I can't just leave you on the street.  Give me something to work with."

            "My dad," he mumbles, "He's gonna be so mad at me."

            "Dude, it _wasn't your fault_.  It was a bad place at a bad time type sitch.  You can't get blamed for getting fucking mugged."

            He shakes his head again, "That's not it, I'm."  He pulls his hands away from his eyes and looks at you, all rabbity, with the exact kind of expression you'd expect from a universal dumping ground.  "I sort of.  Left."

            You sigh and turn off your hazards, pulling back out onto the street.  He's staring at you, but you don't speak up.  There's no reason to.  No matter where he's from - and now you're pretty sure he's not from _here_ , because he just straight up doesn't sound like it - he's obviously not going back.  He won't go to the hospital, probably because he doesn't want to use his insurance and tip off his dad.  Or maybe he doesn't have insurance, you don't know.

            "Where are you taking me?" he asks, as if you might have somehow figured out where he lived and are planning on returning him there.

            "My place," you say, "You don't want to go to the hospital, and you're probably a long way from home anyway, so that's all you get.  It's that, or I drop you off near the police station so you can file a report or something."

            "I didn't see anything," he mumbles.

            "Yeah, figured.  So, my place sound okay?"

            Sollux nods and you take the next left.  He doesn't say anything for five minutes, and you look over to see his head lolling a little against his shoulder.

            "Hey, so.  Where are you from," you say, demanding more than asking.  He jerks awake and looks at you in confusion.

            "Uh."  It takes him some seconds longer than it probably should, but he finally says, "Indianapolis."

            "Cool.  Go Bears."

            "That's Chicago."

            "Whatever.  What are you doing out here?"

            He seems to get what you're doing, because he struggles to sit up in his seat, keeping his eyes fixed on the passing buildings through the windshield.  "I... I don't know," he admits, wavering, "I just.  Had to go somewhere."

            "So you picked _Texas_?  Who the fuck picks _Texas_?"

            "Shut the fuck up," he snaps, "Maybe I was going to California, or something."

            "You're from _Indiana_.  You probably had your sights set on the land of fucking enchantment as an end-all destination."  He stares at you in confusion, so you clarify, "New Mexico.  And that's not a compliment."

            "Wow, fuck you," he says, and there's a reassuringly hard edge in his voice, the first sign of true coherency you've heard in him.  "I was trying to get as far west as fucking possible, is that a fucking surprise?  I lived in _Muncie_ for three years, for crying out loud.  I needed to get out of that goddamn state."

            You laugh because you and your brother still get together to watch _Parks & Recreation_, and that's all you really know about Indiana, and fucking _Muncie_.  Sollux makes a disgruntled noise, but at least he seems more coherent.  You're pretty sure the concussion isn't as bad as you'd thought it was.

            Your apartment is on the third story of an older brick building, and you pull into your parking spot with the nonchalant ease of someone used to every inch of the asphalt.  Sollux doesn't move to get out of the car when you do, so you go around to his side and open the door.  "C'mon."

            He manages to climb out on his own, but he's still shaking and despite your assumptions about his head injuries, you feel compelled to offer him a shoulder to lean on.  He takes it with only a little reluctance, holding on to you as you guide him through the front doors, using your key to get you in past the little holding cell of a waiting area.  The elevator is already on the first floor and so you don't have to waste time waiting for it to come down; once you're inside, Sollux leans away from you, bracing himself on the railing inside the box.  He looks uncomfortable.  You can't really blame him - he's basically completely on his own, with no money, a concussion, probably some bruising, a fat lip and no glasses, and he's stuck in an elevator going to the apartment of a dude who hit him with a car.

            He doesn't look directly at you when the elevator dings, and you have to help him out here, too.  His legs are shaking badly now; he's trembling from foot to finger, and you... well, fuck.  You feel bad.  He's freaking out again and you can't really reassure him in any meaningful way.

            You unlock the door to your apartment and swing it open.  You start to bring him in, but his heels dig into the carpet, his eyes fixated on the darkness of the room beyond with _danger!_ written all over his face.

            "Hey," you say, and maneuver until you can reach in and flip on the hall light.  "It's okay."

            "No," he says, "No, no, it's not, it's - this was a bad idea, I'm sorry but-"

            "Sollux," you say, and he fixes his eyes on you, darting to glance at the better lighting of the inside hall in furtive little ways.  "Dude, listen.  I'm not gonna sugarcoat this for you.  You won't go to the hospital, and you obviously aren't staying at a hotel or something, so there is literally nowhere else to go.  I'm not gonna leave you outside to fend for yourself with a concussion and a serious case of the shakes.  But I'm not a fucking serial killer or something."  You gesture inwards, pointing out what must be a black blur to him but in reality is just your massive shelves of video games and movies.  "I'm a fucking _film student_.  The worst I'm gonna do is make you stare vacantly into the distance while I film you in black and white for my fucking art films.  Don't _worry_."

            He barks out a laugh, more like the hysterical ones from when you first ran into him, and shakes his head.  He sounds a little manic when he speaks.  "Don't tell me, uh, not to worry, I'm.  I don't even know where I am, I c-can't see shit, don't _you tell me to calm down_."

            You wonder how often people do that, because you were seriously just about to say those exact words.  He must freak out often enough to know it doesn't help.

            "I swear to god," you say, trying for sincerity  (which is hard, considering you're so used to keeping that shit out of your life), "I'm not going to do anything to you."

            Sollux's heels still drag when you pull, but he takes a few reluctant steps inside, up until you can shut the door behind you.  Then, he's stuck in your hallway, squinting, trying to make sure he can get some kind of impression of the place he's in.  You let him, standing beside him as he gradually relaxes into your shoulder.  When he lets out a shaky breath, you figure you're in the clear.

            "C'mon.  Bathroom's this way, we can clean you up a  little and I can check you again."

            He nods and follows as you pull him along, being as careful as possible despite the fact that you're really not this patient.  You flip on lights as you go, and at one point he tries putting his glasses back on, only to pull them off again a minute later.

            When you reach the bathroom, you put down the toilet cover and let him sit there, grabbing a towel from the floor and running it under the sink.  He hiccups a few times, and when you give him the towel, his hands shake so badly that he nearly drops it.  "You want me to help?" you ask.

            "...I."  He shakes his head, then nods, his eyebrows swooping upwards his lips pursing, giving him the expression of a five-year-old who just scraped his knee and is trying not to cry.  You settle at his knees, crouching and keeping as much distance as you can, and wipe at the blood on his nose and the thick tearstains going down his cheeks.  He doesn't look at you.

            "I can help you out a little," you start saying, mostly to fill the heavy silence, "Give you some cash, help you send out for a replacement license or ID or whatever, that kind of shit.  Not a lot - I'm not a fucking charity - but if there's anyone I'm gonna take pity on right now, it's the dude with the lisp and two s-sounds in his name."

            Sollux tries to smile.  You take that as some kind of win, and once you're done checking his eye movements again, penlight and all (it's normal now, especially when you make him put on his broken glasses long enough to see your finger), you help him up and out to your couch.  He toes off his shoes before you even suggest it, then curls in on himself, folding his knees up to his chest and fitting his whole body into the tiniest space available on the couch.  You sit on the other side and turn on the television, listening to the news hum on.  The I-10 is clear again, apparently, after the wreckage of a two car collision got cleaned up.  The 610 loop is still under construction.  You still don't give a shit.

            "I'm sorry," Sollux hiccups suddenly from his corner.  "I didn't mean to freak out on you, I'm.  I'm just, really..."  He laughs and shakes his head, covering his face with his hands.  You watch it all, wondering how he can flip between terrified and manic so easily.  "I'm lost.  Fuck, I'm so fucking lost."

            Though you're pretty sure you're going to get punched for it, you move over a bit closer and put an arm around Sollux's shoulders.  Slowly, in case he freaks out.  He doesn't.

            "Yeah," you say.  "That's okay.  You're from Muncie, you're supposed to be lost in the big city."

            He laughs again, this time sounding worn out but honestly amused, and he hesitantly leans against your arm until you have to move closer, to make sure he doesn't fall over.  "Shut up."

            "Sure," you say, and squeeze his shoulder.  "Only if you promise to take a shower or something, though.  You fucking reek."

            Sollux punches you blindly, missing your shoulder and getting you more in the chest area, but you can take a few punches.  And after what you've seen, you figure that Sollux probably deserves the chance to start throwing a few of his own.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dave takes Sollux to get new glasses.

            When you wake up from the sleep that you don't remember falling into, you find Sollux passed out against you.  His breathing is wheezy and stammered, but at least you know now that his concussion hadn't been too bad after all.  Besides, you'd done your best to keep him up with random conversation for another hour or two, until you'd pretty much passed out.  (You think, at least.)

            You manage to slip out from under his head without waking him, which is probably less of a feat than you'd like to imagine - the guy looks like he barely sleeps - and promptly hit up the bathroom.  The towel you'd used to clean off his face is wadded up in the sink, and when you look at it, you're pretty sure the bloodstains aren't going to come out too easy.  It's cool, though - you can buy at least three more at Wal-Mart later on.

            You go through the motions of brushing your teeth, grabbing your shades from the edge of the sink, and then stare into the mirror without really thinking hard about anything.  You consider the options for the day - breakfast (lunch?  What time is it, even?), hit up the gas station, probably help Sollux out with his glasses.  You wonder if they'll have his shit on file here, or if he used some other place back home to get his glasses.  You're not sure you can really afford to help him pay for an eye exam.

            Sollux is still passed out when you come back into the room some ten minutes later.  You check to make sure he's still breathing, which is an affirmative, then check the time on your phone once you dig it out from the couch cushions.  It's only twelve-thirty, which is pretty good as far as summer schedules go for you, so you declare it breakfast - brunch, whatever - and go to dig out the microwave bacon from the fridge.  And Eggos.  Fuck yeah.

            You're pretty sure it's the bacon smell - or the coffee, which is instant but it smells _basically_ the same as the shit you used to drink when you lived with your brother - that rouses Sollux from the sofa, gangly arms stretching high over his head before he starts to notice that he's still in some unfamiliar place.

            "Morning," you say before he can freak out.  It startles him, yeah, and he nearly gets whiplash turning his head to squint over the couch and towards the kitchenette, but you can see his shoulders relax a little.

            "Shit," he says.  "I wasn't supposed to go to sleep, was I?"

            "It depended on how bad your concussion was, but I guess it worked out, so no big.  You feeling less like you got hit by a car and mugged in the same night?"

            It takes him a minute, but he manages to stand and make his bleary-eyed way over to the kitchen, though he doesn't really make the transition from carpet to linoleum.  "Kind of, I guess."  He puts a hand to the cabinet, probably to steady himself.  "I'd feel better if my glasses weren't a total fucking wreck."

            "Yeah, that sucks."  The microwave beeps and you're quick to pull out the bacon, tossing the plate onto the powered-off stovetop.  It's pretty much the only space available, with all the crap you leave lying around on the countertops.  "If you got them at LensCrafters or whatever, I know one nearby, I can help you get a new pair."

            "You don't have to."

            "Kind of do, dude, I'm not gonna let you go wandering around blind and shit."

            Sollux's shoulders hunch and he doesn't really say anything to that, so you ignore him in favor of popping a few frozen waffles into the toaster.  You pull a piece of radioactively hot bacon off the plate and pop it into your mouth, turning to look at Sollux and finding him just sort of staring in your general direction.  His eye still looks weird, in a way you can't figure out.

            "If you wanna use the shower, I can show you where the bathroom is."

            "Yeah, okay."  Sollux purses his lips, and you can tell that he's realizing just how bad he smells.  Not like a trashcan, or something - just... like he hasn't taken care of himself in a few days.  Or a week or two.

            You show him to the bathroom and go ahead and pull out the extra toothbrush you keep around in case you have couchcrashers, then hand him a piece of bacon and say, "Take your time," before heading back to your freshly popped waffles and your own plateful of bacon.

            You eat on the couch, leaving the television on _The Young and the Restless_ because there's nothing else on that's any good.  Unless you feel like Telemundo - but they're not showing gameshows at this hour, and while you don't keep up with any soaps regularly or even frequently, you seriously have no fucking clue what's going on during _¿Dónde Está Elisa?_ or whatever the hell they're showing now.

            Sollux doesn't reemerge from the bathroom until well into _The Bold and the Beautiful_ , but you figure it was probably necessary for his own health to take for-fucking-ever.  It definitely looks like it helped; there'd been a spot on his jaw that you'd thought was a bruise, but it's apparently washed off and wow, that's kind of gross.  This dude should have at least hit up a hostel or something.  His hair isn't so stringy, either, and despite the fact that his clothes are kind of gross too, he definitely looks closer to a million bucks than the three-fifty-six he had going for him last night.  He actually resembles a human being now, which is nice.

            "Feel better?" you ask.

            "Yeah, thanks."  He looks towards the kitchen.  "Uh, do you have any more bacon or something?  I'm kind of starving.  Sorry."

            "Nah, no prob."  You hop off the couch and head to the freezer, pulling out two more waffles and popping them into the toaster, before handing over the half-eaten plate of bacon.  "Have at, man, syrup's on the range."

            He looks mildly concerned by the fact that you consistently store food and condiments on top of a working stove, but he's the guest, so he doesn't really get to say anything about your quirks.  Or massively bizarre eccentricities, whatever.

            He eats standing beside the counter, which is kind of weird, but he can't see shit so it's probably safer than trying to carry food all over the apartment.  You let him do his thing until your almost-sort-of interesting soap opera concludes on a perfectly contrived cliff-hanger, and then put your arm over the back of the couch and look at him.

            "So.  LensCrafters.  You down?"

            Sollux stares at you blankly, like he's forgotten you'd offered in the first place, and then he says, "If you're okay with taking me.  But I don't have any cash, so I don't know if I can even get a new pair until..."

            Until he contacts his dad and lets him know what happened.  Which means, basically, he's never going to get a new pair.

            "Don't worry about it.  I can help you out."

            You really hope he doesn't say some shit like, "you've already helped enough," or "I can't accept hand outs," or whatever else people say when they want to look like they don't desperately need the help of other people.  Sure, it's polite, but you're not really looking to have to reassure the dude that you're totally okay with helping him get his glasses.

            "...Yeah," he says, finally.  "Okay.  Thanks."

            ...Okay, maybe a _little_ protesting wouldn't have hurt.  But whatever, you can appreciate him knowing when he needs help.

            "Cool.  Lemme grab my shoes.  We'll get you something so you can actually see your hand in front of your face."

            Sollux is quiet as you lead him out of the building.  He sticks close to you, keeping nearly within kicking distance, but you don't want to tell him to back off so you can widen your stride.  At the very least, he doesn't need you to open doors for him; he manages that well enough without your help.

            It isn't until you're out of the parking lot and on your way to the Galleria that Sollux finally speaks up.  "...Thanks, for this."  He doesn't look at you, keeping his eyes glued to the window.  "Seriously.  I... don't know why you're helping, but thanks."

            You're not really sure how to respond to that.  You glance at him as you switch lanes, watching the way his he hunches his shoulders and ducks his head.  You're starting to think he hasn't had too many friends - or at least, not many who would help him out in a situation like this.

            "Don't worry about it," you say.  "It's all good.  You can make it up to me."

            "I doubt it," he sighs, running a hand through his hair.  "It's not like I have the cash or anything to pay you back."

            You tap your fingers against the steering wheel, and though he's not looking at you, you can't help but give him a smirk.  "Usually, this is about when I'd be making some kind of joke about needing a trophy wife or something, but I'm gonna let that slide until you can at least glare at me, instead of in my general direction."

            Sollux snorts.  "That's pretty presumptuous of you.  I could already be someone else's trophy wife."

            "I don't see a ring to prove it."

            "Wow, I was fucking mugged, of course you don't see a ring."

            You look over again, a little worried that maybe you hit a sore spot, but you can see something resembling a smirk on Sollux's face in his reflection.  That's good.  Joking about this shit is good.  "Guess I'll just have to buy you one of those, too."

            "And make me owe more?  Fuck no.  I'm going ringless."  He's quiet for a minute, still looking amused, but his expression has a strange, bittersweet kind of taint to it.  It echoes in his voice when he adds, "Besides.  Only assholes wear rings."

            You don't know how to take that, so you don't say anything at all.  He stays quiet and a little morose for the rest of the drive.

            The Galleria is kind of swamped right now, but thankfully you manage to find parking somewhere near the entrance closest to the LensCrafters.  That's not exactly saying much, but at least the crowded parking lot and the people hustling to and from the mall give Sollux something to focus on other than whatever the fuck had gotten him down in the car.

            "I hate malls," he says, bumping shoulders with you for the third time since you both managed to get in the doors.

            "Me too, man.  They fucking suck."  You put a hand on his shoulder to help steer him around a few screaming toddlers and their woe-begotten mother, and you don't react when he shrugs you off a second later.  You've probably reached your quota of Sollux accepting your help for the day.

            When you reach the store, Sollux does all of the talking.  You're a little surprised to see him smile at the girl helping him out; he downplays the fat lip and bruises and the whole mugging thing in general, even shows her his glasses - you didn't see him pick them up - and earns so many sympathy points that he could probably cash them in for a drink at the nearest bar if he wanted.

            She helps him get in contact with the last store he got his prescription filled at, and it turns out that no, he doesn't need another exam.  She even points out the cheapest frames, and since you're buying, she takes your AAA card.  It still costs a fuckton, but it's worth it for the one-hour pickup (two hours, she says, because of how strong the prescription is).

            The two of you pass some time waiting at Orange Julius, narrating the theoretical conversations and life stories of the people passing you both by, then GameStop.  Sollux can't make out any of the games, even when squinting, so you make him pay by forcing him to listen to your best dramatic recitals of game blurbs from _TMNT: Smash Up_ and _Crazy Frog Arcade Racer_.  He punches your shoulder once or twice when you get particularly preview-narration about it, but he laughs most of the time.  It's this hoarse, dry-throated chuckle that usually only brings a slight turn to his lips, and because of that you feel a weird sense of accomplishment when he actually smiles.  When you find a used copy of _Mary-Kate and Ashley's Winner's Circle_ , you nearly freak out - thankfully, Sollux is too blind and distracted by squinting up at the television playing previews to notice.

            You buy it with every intention of introducing Sollux to the world of terrible gaming for the sake of terrible games.

            LensCrafters calls you and lets you know that Sollux's glasses are ready; when you lead him back, he keeps close, but this time he doesn't shove you away when you help him navigate the thick crowds of people.  The receptionist is pretty much ready to go when you get there, and you hang back and check out the various sunglasses frames they have while they sit Sollux down and use tiny screwdrivers to tighten the arms and make him look up and down and around to make sure he can see all right.

            You hear him say, "Oh," at one point, a bit startled sounding, and when you look over he's just kind of looking at you.  He turns back to the receptionist and says, "No, they're okay," when she asks if they're still loose.

            You have to admit, you're pretty pleased by that.  _Oh_ is a pretty good thing to hear people say when they get their first clear look at you.

            The glasses fit fine and they seem to make Sollux relax, so you have no problem forking over your credit card for the purchase.  When you head back to the car, Sollux keeps nearly as close to you as he had when you'd first gotten to the mall, but you don't mind.  He still looks uncomfortable, and you're pretty sure he wasn't exaggerating when he said he hated malls.

            "So," you say as you reach the car, "I gotta stop for gas, but other than that, I'm not really positive what we're gonna do with you.  Any advice?"

            Sollux looks at you from across the roof of your car, chewing absently on his lower lip.  "I don't... know.  I don't have any money, so I can't... afford to do anything, and I just - I can't call my dad, and, I don't want to keep putting you out, so I don't know-"

            "Not really putting me out, man.  Not like I have much else going on here, so don't worry."

            Sollux shifts from foot to foot, and it's only once you climb into the car that he follows.  He's quiet as you navigate the parking lot, before he finally blurts out, "Can I stay at your place for a couple of nights?  Until I get shit figured out?"  It comes out almost in a jumble, nearly unintelligible with his lisp and the way he refuses to look at you, but you make it out anyway.

            "Yeah," you say, "Sure."  Because that's basically what you'd offered up, though not in so many words.  You can tell he hadn't really expected you to agree, but you're not about to take it back or anything.  The guy needs help, and you don't have anything else to do.

            The drive back is mostly silent, save for the low droning of your static-filled country songs and the sounds of the road when you eventually roll down your window to let some of the hot air out.  You stop at the gas station to fill up your tank - just in case - and you buy one of the travel first aid kits from inside the AM/PM.  You also buy a Twix, passing one of the bars over to Sollux once you're about ready to go.

            "Thanks," he mumbles.

            "No prob."

            You watch him out of the corner of your eye as he rotates the candy in his hands, like he's watching it get soft and melted, categorizing every reaction the chocolate has with the insane heat.  Like it's going to explain something to him, or provide some kind of deep, metaphorical revelation about his situation.  He looks like he might want to say something, but you don't know what the hell he could possibly say to make anything different; he must recognize it too, because he just keeps quiet, rolling the melting chocolate bar between his fingers.  He nibbles on one end, but you don't see him eat the whole thing, and when he rolls down the window, you think he probably throws it out.

            His fingertips are covered in chocolate, and he doesn't lick them clean until you get back to the apartment complex.  Then, he says, "Let me, uh.  Make dinner, or something.  And do some cleaning too, if you want.  I don't want to be a freeloader."

            "Okay," you say.

            You feel kind of guilty for saying it, though, because you're not trying to get him to do anything for you.  You just have nothing better to do than help out a dude in need of some good, old-fashioned southern hospitality.  But he smiles at you when you agree, kind of crooked but totally sincere, and you figure that letting the guy clean up your shitty apartment and try to make dinner out of whatever freezer-burned foodstuffs you have isn't taking advantage of the situation after all.


End file.
